


Open and Shut

by AJWmagickl



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, Caught in the Act, M/M, Pre-Slash, Referenced Non-Con - Freeform, Resentful Masterbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-02 15:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJWmagickl/pseuds/AJWmagickl
Summary: Daryl Dixon can count on less than ten fingers the number of times in his life that he has truly, utterly panicked.  There have been scares, of course.  Plenty of those, what with growing up a Dixon and surviving the apocalypse and everything.  He’s experienced abject terror as recently as a few weeks ago.Lined up at that bloody trough at Terminus might’ve been the last time he really panicked, and it was over the second Rick cut the cords that bound his hands.Man, to be back at Terminus. If only things were as simple as life and death at the moment. But of course, they aren’t.Nope.  Things just got real complicated.





	1. The Closet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanonCannon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/gifts).



> This is based on a prompt given to me by the wonderful and amazing @canoncannon, who agreed to assist me in my quest to write more awkwardness by giving me a SUPER AWKWARD PROMPT. And while she was doing that, she managed to coin the term "resentful masterbation", for which I will be forever grateful.
> 
> While I'll never attain her Obiwan level of awkwardness mastery, I hope this is at least enjoyable and maybe that it makes everybody cringe at least once. :)
> 
> It was lots of fun to write (and very unbeta'd).
> 
> Also, the implied non-con here is, in my mind, not actually non-con (not in the character's mind, anyway), but for those who are very sensitive I wanted to tag it.

Daryl Dixon can count on less than ten fingers the number of times in his life that he has truly, utterly panicked. There have been scares, of course. Plenty of those, what with growing up a Dixon and surviving the apocalypse and everything. He’s experienced abject terror as recently as a few weeks ago.

Soul-rending grief, he understands that. Trauma. Self-loathing. Anxiety. But if he’s learned anything at all, it’s that panic never helped anyone accomplish anything. And in a crisis, shit has to be managed.

Lined up at that bloody trough at Terminus might’ve been the last time he really panicked, and it was over the second Rick cut the cords that bound his hands. 

Man, to be back at Terminus. If only things were as simple as life and death at the moment. But of course, they aren’t.

Nope. Things just got real complicated.

He’s lying uncomfortably on the dark floor of the closet in Jesus’ trailer, as close to outright panic as he’s ever been. He tries to look without seeing through a narrow open slit at the edge of the door that, for fuck’s sake, refuses to close completely. Outside the door, and too close for comfort, are the ominous sounds of heavy breathing and a belt buckle clanging open. 

_Fuck._ He sighs noiselessly, trying to calm his shallow breaths. Today was supposed to be easy, with Jesus taking Maggie outside the walls to search for wild herbs that could be cultivated to use as medicine. Enid was tagging along out of interest, and Sasha joined them for added security. She was loathe to leave Maggie’s side even at Hilltop.

***

_Daryl saw them to the gate, watched the tiny Honda head down the dirt road away from Hilltop. A few minutes later, he was back at the trailer he shared with the other four, rummaging through the closet._

_He trusted Jesus just fine. Truth be told, the man had proven himself to Daryl over and over in ways that couldn’t be calculated. He helped Alexandria get food when they were starving, despite the fact that everything went to hell after that. He fought with them at the satellite station. He took care of Maggie and Sasha when they arrived, broken, at the Hilltop with Glenn and Abraham’s bodies._

_Although Jesus didn’t actually rescue Daryl from the Sanctuary, he was willing to do it, he was there and he tried. And most importantly, he never pressed Daryl to talk about Fat Joey, never asked why Daryl beat the asshole’s brains into the concrete. He just invited Daryl into his world and treated him like everyone else. If anything, the man was damn near perfection in this world, from his calm demeanor to his expert negotiating skills, to his overly large, expressive blue eyes that seemed to seek Daryl out a little more than he was comfortable with._

_But then there was Paul. Paul who grew up in a group home but acted like he had his shit completely together. Paul who, for some inexplicable reason, was a master in martial arts and, despite his size, a serious badass. Paul who could shoot a man in cold blood and turn around and apologize because the biscuits were dry at dinner, and who had a sharp sarcastic tongue when somebody (Gregory) pissed him off._

_There was someone named Paul hiding beneath the Jesus persona and maybe Daryl didn’t suspect him of anything. He just didn’t know him. So when the golden opportunity presented itself, he decided to see what he could find._

_In the trailer, clothes lay in boxes on the floor, blankets folded on the couch, kitchen items on a shelf. Books were flailed about in haphazard piles like literary landmines, and even that stupid red hat had its own hook on the wall. But in the time that Daryl had lived there, he hadn’t seen anyone use the closet._

_If Paul had secrets (and everyone had secrets), Daryl knew he’d find them in the closet._

_The space was narrow, and only deep enough to accommodate some hanging clothes and a few boxes, which is exactly what Daryl found. He shifted the boxes slightly toward the front of the closet to make space for snooping, which barely left room for his feet to step in behind them._

_The largest box opened to reveal a hodge-podge mix of candles, bandages, Christmas lights, books (of course, more fucking books), and an oddly large collection of mismatched socks. Beneath all of that, Daryl found a plain shoebox that rattled when he pulled it from the bottom of the box. And to his dying day, Daryl would swear that it was this very moment, when he lifted the lid of the box and peered inside, that all his troubles truly began._

_He picked a couple of items out with one hand, a bottle and something oddly shaped and rubbery, before tilting the box toward the light coming from the window to read the label on a package that turned out to be condoms. Raising one eyebrow, he glances with a wince at the hand not holding the box._

_The bottle was lube, the rubbery thing turned out to be a bright purple anal plug, and Daryl would’ve dropped them both like they had just set his palm afire if the sound of boots clomping on the trailer steps and the door handle jiggling hadn’t made him collapse to the closet floor._

_The door stuck as he wrenched it shut, leaving a gap no more than a couple of inches wide right in his line of sight to the trailer._

_Then Jesus entered, followed by another man with blond hair. The second man was tall and muscular, Daryl recognized him as Dr. Carson’s assistant_ (Andy? Artie?) _, a nurse or something. But it became very obvious very fast that he wasn’t following Jesus in for medical reasons. No sooner had the door slammed behind them than the blond wrapped his arms around Jesus from behind, his nose nuzzling Jesus’ neck as the two of them stumbling to slam against the wall adjacent to the closet._

_Before Daryl could decide who was going to win this fight, Jesus turned in the blond man’s arms, grabbed his hair and kissed him full on the mouth._

_“Wanna fuck me?”, murmured the blond_ (Adam? Arthur?) _through the onslaught of Jesus’ mouth and tongue._

_“No. You’ve got Wes to fuck you.” Jesus’ voice was firm, almost growling as he pulled back and put his hands on his belt, his face full of lust. “This was your idea, do what you promised.”_

_That’s when the blond one giggled and sank to his knees. Daryl shut his eyes for a moment, only to open them again when he realized that the slight gap in the closet door was a red flag. It was completely closed before Daryl went in, and if Jesus noticed and came to investigate, Daryl was in a shitload of trouble._

_He couldn’t move without risking noise, and he’d rather get caught by DEA agents with ten kilos of Merle’s coke and spend life in prison than for Jesus to find him here, like this. Because he’d dropped himself and the box to the floor in an uncoordinated heap, the lube and the butt plug still gripped in his left hand, and that hand was now caught fast between his stomach and the box he was pressed against._

***

So here he is, panic swelling in his chest, eyes open so he can have some kind of warning in case Jesus notices the closet door (even though he has no idea what he would do if he did). And now he’s not just listening but watching the blond one _(Allen?)_ pull Jesus’ pants down to rub his hardening dick through his boxers.

Expletives shoot through Daryl’s brain like comets flying from one end of his brain to the other and circling back again. He knows he’s making some of these cuss words up as he goes, but he’s pretty sure he’s in shock, and anything is better than thinking about what’s happening not ten feet away from him.

A growl, low and demanding, pulls him back to the situation at hand.

“Quit fucking around and just do it, for fuck’s sake.”, snaps Paul.

Maggie had once told Daryl that Jesus didn’t believe himself to be a leader. At this moment, with Paul gripping the blond one’s hair back, tilting his head up so that he could see the impatience in Paul’s face, Daryl would beg to differ. 

The blond one _(Abel?)_ nods, tugs on the elastic of Paul’s navy blue boxers and pulls them down to rest at his knees with his jeans. The moan apparently came from Paul, because another falls from his lips as the blond one teases the head of his cock with a lick, and he leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

And Daryl is now forever going to have to quit calling this guy Jesus, because a lot of things are suddenly very fucked up and out of Daryl’s control, and he knows that the guy about to get his dick sucked by some ‘roided out nurse should not be called Jesus. It’s not much, but he can at least control that.

Nope, this guy is Paul. His voice is unexpectedly brusque as his hands grip the blond one’s hair, holding the other’s face close to his crotch in what could appear to be a display of dominance. This does not fascinate Daryl, and does not make Daryl’s cock twitch with interest where it is trapped against his thigh and his jeans and another stupid box. 

If Daryl could make any noise right now, it would be the deepest sigh ever sighed in the history of sighs. Then he would bang his head against the wall a few times, just hard enough that he could see stars. Instead, he narrows his eyes and zeros in on Paul’s face, turning the rest of his attention to his peripheral surroundings in an attempt to just get through this.

The closet is musty and dark and really uncomfortable, and that’s as far as Daryl gets in his peripheral exercise, because it turns out that staring at Paul’s flushed, enraptured face is mind-numbingly distracting.

Even more distracting is the fact that other than the random grunts and words erupting from Paul’s mouth, the only sound in the room is a loud, slobbery sucking noise.

Too slobbery. That blond one _(Albert?)_ is being way too sloppy with this whole thing. Daryl can’t help but shift his eyes down and watch the blond one trying to swallow Paul’s dick, using his hand at the base to make up for what he can’t handle.

 _Lightweight._ If you gotta do a thing, you might as well do it right, that’s what Daryl believes. He knows just how he’d do that job if it was him on his knees in front of Paul, and it would be a helluva lot cleaner and more thorough than whatever _Armande_ is doing now. 

Paul moans again, loud and drawn out like he likes what _Archie_ is doing, like he’s never had better, and Daryl can’t help but wonder how it would feel to have that hard cock fucking his mouth, those nimble fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching his scalp until it bled. 

But ohfuckohfuckohfuckNO he’s not going there. He shut the door on his desires a long time ago, he made a choice because _could_ , because he had to.

His dick is disagreeing with him at the moment, getting harder by the second as lurid sounds fall from Paul’s lips. He can’t will it to go down, hell, he can’t even touch it in this position. God, he’s fucked.

He wants to curl into a ball, contain the emotion in his midsection until it seeps back into his spine. But he’s immobilized, stretched out lengthwise with both arms mostly pinned. So the unfettered shame climbs to his chest, to his throat until he wants to gasp for air. The emotional energy grips him like talons, digging into his stomach and scraping out memory after memory.

_...In the bathroom of a dive bar in Atlanta, a man with an unremarkable face and asphalt hands grinding his less remarkable dick into Daryl’s ass while Daryl begged for it, pleaded with him to go harder, faster, the fact that his brother was drinking not thirty feet away both terrifying and exciting him._

_...Earlier, on his knees in an empty high school classroom, taking his first cock into his mouth and almost coming from the feel of it hardening and pulsing between his lips. Sucking like a damn bitch while the boy above him groaned in pleasure. Spunk shooting down his throat, slick and warm, while he sucked that boy dry. “Damn, Dixon. You’re a fucking whore for it, aren’t you?”_

_...Even earlier, junior high, tucked into his bed while one of his father’s parties wound down on the other side of the door, when the son of a family friend, a boy close to his age, entered and lay down next to him. He rubbed his cock against Daryl’s clothed ass until he grunted drunkenly and passed out, cum spotting his pants. Daryl didn’t move a muscle until the boy was snoring, then he slipped out quietly and into the woods, stripping himself of his pajamas and wading waist deep into the cold creek until his erection waned._

The shame didn’t wane though, not ever. It only grew, but he learned to contain it. And at the end of the world he shut it down, shut everything down, focused on staying alive and keeping his new family together. He’d never have to be that person again, that needy, wanting thing that always left him dripping with cum and self-loathing.

But here it is again, everything, breathing dragon fire into his gut, and he’s powerless to do anything but let the flames burn away the defenses he’s so carefully built. So he does the only thing he knows to do with those feelings, he gets angry. 

Fuck that little hippie. He’s supposed to be on a road trip, not in this trailer getting his boner drooled on.

Daryl wants to continue, let the rage build brick by brick into an unbreakable wall around him. But two seconds later, everything goes to shit. 

The sound of _Antonio_ slurping around Paul’s cock makes Daryl think of a cow chewing its cud, but he must’ve done something right because suddenly Paul grabs his head and fucks into his mouth with a shout. 

Not just any shout. It’s a name.

“Oh god, Daryl!”

Now, Daryl might be having a hard time remembering the blond one’s name, but he’s damn sure that _Daryl_ is not it.

There’s no mistaking what just happened. Daryl’s heart stops beating, he’s sure of it, less sure if it plans on starting again anytime soon. He watches the blond one pull off Paul’s cock and stumble backward on his knees, a look of absolute shock dawning on his perfect stupid face.

Paul looks confused for a split second until realization dawns. But instead of moving towards _Alvin_ to apologize, instead of reacting with mortification at the revelation that just erupted from his mouth, he leans back in resignation.

Paul’s eyes are on _Alfred_ , and Daryl’s eyes are on Paul.

The blond one immediately stands, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, the look on his face undeniably stating that the fun is over.

Finally Paul speaks. “Alex, I’m…”

 _Alex._ He doesn’t look like an Alex.

“Shut up!! Just shut the fuck up!”, screams the blond one, his face a red mess of disgust and fury. He takes a deep breath to calm himself as Paul closes his mouth and stares.

“Just don’t. You want me, you beg me for it, then you go and say that name. I should’ve known. The way you’re always around him, the way you’re suddenly Alexandria’s best friend.” _Asswipe_ is almost mumbling now, shaking his head.

Apparently, his words don’t sit well with Paul.

“What the fuck, man?” Paul’s face is hard, his mouth set into a thin line, eyes blazing as he pulls his jeans up and fastens them. “You’re the one who…you followed me in here! You wanted this!”

Lowering his voice, his face remains stern as he takes a few steps forward. “You know what this is. You knew when you put your mouth on my dick. We’re over. We’ve been over. You’re with someone else. This was just…” He throws his hands up and purses his lips, looking at the blond one with a mixture of anger and empathy on his face.

“Fine.”, says _Assbutt_ with a huff of disgust. “We’re over, for real. I get it. You love someone else. But when straight-as-a-board _Daryl_ ,” the name rolls off his tongue with venom, “when he breaks your heart and probably punches your lights out doing it, just remember.” 

He walks to the door and opens it when Paul says, “Remember what?”

“That you cared about me once.” 

Daryl doesn’t miss the wetness around the blond one’s eyes when he looks back at Paul.

Paul drops his gaze to his feet and only nods, a vague nod as if to acknowledge the other’s words while keeping them firmly in the past.

With the slam of the door, Jesus leans forward, rubbing his face with his hands. Daryl watches him intently, and when he straightens again, his eyes are glassy, his cheeks pale, his brow furrowed. 

Daryl know that look. It’s shame. 

And there it is, that inkling of a connection, a dawn of understanding that tightens the muscles across Daryl’s shoulders. 

Paul thinks he’s straight and is ashamed for wanting him.

 _And, Paul wants him_. 

In a few minutes, the trailer is empty except for the tiny space Daryl occupies in the closet. Paul has washed up and left, and after Daryl feels safe to unfold himself from the closet floor, dropping the lube and the butt plug as he does, he steps across the trailer to peek through the window.

The car is pulling out of the gates again, while Earl waves it off with a tire iron in one hand and a deflated tire at his feet.

Daryl nearly laughs as he thinks about how one flat tire just radically fucked his life up, probably for good. Because now he knows how Paul feels, and now that he’s been forced to remember who _he_ is, there’s no going back. 

He’s reeling with long-neglected emotions and questions, and something that feels like want and hope. He waits a few minutes to make sure the car is not returning again before his mind calms down and he feels safe to return to the closet.

He’s done searching, though. He’s learned enough of Paul’s secrets for the day. He shifts the boxes back into place, when a book catches his eye. It’s stuffed precariously on the closet’s top shelf, hanging slightly over the edge, and it’s pages are loose, sticking out in every direction. Edging its thick black cover with his fingertips, Daryl carefully prods it from its perch.

It’s a sketch book. The pages inside are filled with doodles and faces that he doesn’t recognize, some simple, others more detailed. He flips through to the final pages and stops at a sketch of a familiar face. Maggie.

It’s beautiful in its simplicity, the charcoal lines fluid and carefully arranged. She’s smiling, and Daryl fleetingly wonders how many people have seen that smile since Glenn died. Probably only a handful, but Paul is obviously one of them.

The next page displays two sketches, Sasha and Enid. They’re works in progress from what Daryl can tell, but already the heart of the subjects shines through from the page. It’s obvious that Paul is talented, and Daryl can’t help feeling impressed by the careful detail of his work.

There’s a last page, still bound in the book instead of loose like most of the others, and when Daryl turns to it he’s not sure he’s seeing it right. He carries the book into the light of the trailer, and draws a sharp breath.

It’s him. Or something like him. He’s staring, his feet moving clumsily in a box-step dance like they do when he’s feeling anxious. In the drawing, he’s facing forward, wearing only jeans slung low on his hips. A scar from a gunshot is penciled on his shoulder, the beauty mark on his face, even the older scars on his chest and belly are there. Long, dark hair falls just to his shoulders and he’s sure it’s never looked this good in real life.

He’s slender, but not emaciated like he was when he returned from the sanctuary. Broad shoulders narrowing to his waist, every muscle in his arms defined. Shadow and space define high cheekbones, and the expression in his eyes is an unexpected combination of steel and kindness. 

He looks…good. And he wonders if this is wishful thinking on Paul’s part or if this is somehow the way that Paul sees him. A sharp pang of unworthiness hits his chest. No matter what Paul sees, it’s somehow skewed into something he can make beautiful, and Daryl knows he’ll never be that.

Frustrated, he shoves the book back up onto the shelf, repacks the box he’d opened, buttplug and all, and shifts it into place. The door still won’t shut completely but that’s the last of his problems right now.

He finally lets go the sigh that’s been stuffed inside for too long, runs his hands through his hair, and realizes his dick is still hard.

He stares at his crotch for a moment. Well, that’s not going away anytime soon. 

Anger starts to boil up again. Fuck Paul for saying his name. For making him want. For making him think for even a nanosecond that he could have something normal, something real. And for drawing that stupid picture. To hell with that stupid hippie ninja freak and his fuckbuddy for ripping away Daryl’s certainty that he could just live without love or sex for the rest of his life and be _fine_.

He locks the trailer door and falls into a sitting position on the couch, his hand immediately pressing between his legs. He’s going to have to take care of this, and he’s none too happy about it. He prefers to jack off to nameless faces and bodies that he’s never touched, but all he can think of is Paul. The hair on his chest and belly. His smooth, perfect cock, the soft tendrils of hair clinging to his face with sweat, the commanding voice and moans of pleasure that Daryl was never, ever going to forget.

And hell, any dignity Daryl may have ever possessed has just succumbed to its own trailer-closet-apocalypse, he knows he’ll never get it back, so he unfastens his jeans, spits on his palm and wraps a hand around his cock, which jumps at the contact.

Damn it’s been a long time, and he’s sure he hasn’t been this hard since he was a teenager. He slides the denim down a bit so he can touch his balls with his free hand while the other works his shaft, running his thumb over the tip with a slight twist of his wrist.

He wonders if Paul would like his dick. He thinks yes, because of all the things he knows are wrong about himself, his dick has never been an issue. Most of all, though, he wonders if Paul tops. He feels sure that he does, and that thought has Daryl leaking precum and getting harder, if that’s even possible. 

But first things first, and although Daryl knew nothing this morning, he now knows that Paul needs a really good blowjob. One done right. So he closes his eyes and imagines himself in the blond one’s place, on his knees, Paul’s hands tugging his hair as he lower Paul’s boxers.

Two minutes later he’s groaning Paul’s name and coming all over himself. He didn’t even get to finish the blowjob in his mind because a good blowjob takes more than a couple of minutes if it’s done right. He’s physically relieved and hates himself as he grabs a nearby towel and wipes the cum off his stomach.

At least he did what he set out to do, which is to learn something about Paul Rovia. He just wasn’t planning on opening all the doors and windows to the basement of his own mind and letting his demons out to run amuck.

He has no idea what he’s going to do now. So he pulls up his jeans, washes his hands, grabs a few tools from the shelf.

Later, he hunts.

The away team has returned by the time Daryl trudges back through Hilltop’s gates several hours later. Daryl gives a tired, surly nod to Eduardo and several others as they haul planters of various herbs from the trunk to the garden.

Maggie, Enid and Sasha are slumped in the shade on the porch of Barrington house, sipping water and looking tired but no worse for wear. The run must’ve been a success, and Daryl’s in no mood for chit-chat so he takes his kills elsewhere. 

Paul, of course, is in the trailer when Daryl gets there. 

“Hey!”, the ninja says, his smile genuine and his fucking hair perfect, like he didn’t just spend a day wandering creek beds and digging up plants.

Daryl frowns. How’s he supposed to act now? Paul dips a tea bag in a mug of steaming water in the makeshift kitchen, but all Daryl can see is Paul with his pants to his knees, moaning his name in pleasure. He mentally wills his erection down before it can even start. 

And he must’ve stood there a minute too long because Paul’s smile has waned to something soft and curious, and he’s tilting his head slightly.

“You okay?”

Daryl’s brain snaps back to reality. “Yeah, man. Just hot.” He’s fidgeting on his feet again, feeling a blush that started somewhere in his chest crawl across his face like it doesn’t give a goddam that he’s trying to look calm. “Got some squirrels.” 

Paul’s eyes narrow for a split second before he smiles again, big and broad. “Great! How about I take them out and gut them? I mean, you did the hunting. I’ll clean them, and Enid can make a stew.”

Relieved that Paul will soon be out of his presence, Daryl agrees, pulling the string of dead squirrels from his shoulder and holding them out. Paul plucks them from his hand on his way out, his fingers brushing Daryl’s and, Daryl thinks, lingering just a moment too long. 

Daryl steps away toward the couch as Paul heads to the door. A piece of paper lays on the pile of blankets there, and he realizes that he’s looking at the picture from Paul’s sketchbook. The picture Paul drew of him, right out there in the open. 

“What the hell’s this?” His voice is quiet and unsteady as he picks the paper up like it’s a precious, fragile thing, a spiderweb that might dissolve in his hand.

“Oh.”, Paul says, and Daryl can’t manage to look at him to see if he’s smirking or not. “That’s just something I drew. It’s for you. As a thank you. You know, for fixing the closet door.”

Daryl’s head snaps up and they manage a look between them, Daryl’s eyes wide in surprise, and Paul’s narrow, but his face is kind.

And Daryl can’t help it, he spent too long earlier staring at that picture and wondering.

“Man, why’d you draw me like this? That ain’t me.”

Paul shrugs. “Yeah, it’s you. It’s how I see you, but it’s more than that.” He leans a bit to try to recapture Daryl’s gaze. “I think it’s what you don’t see. In yourself, I mean.”

Daryl glares, which he hope Paul understands is Dixon speak for “I don’t wanna go there.”  
But Paul goes there.

“I just wish you could see how beautiful you are. Everyone else sees it.” His voice lowers to almost a whisper. “I see it.”

Daryl is staring at the wall when the door slams shut behind Paul.


	2. The Other Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl comes to conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so many requests for a follow-up to chapter one, and I really, really hope this does it justice. 
> 
> (*Crosses her fingers and hits the Post button.)
> 
> A gazillion thanks to @canoncannon for her encouragement and letting me bounce ideas off of her, and of course for the original prompt that got this fic rolling.

Dinner is awkward. More to the point, _Daryl_ is awkward. He keeps his head down, mostly, slurping his soup like a last meal, only daring to glance up from time to time to see that yes, Paul’s eyes are still on him.

Those goddam eyes. They’re almost supernatural, from their indefinable color to the doe-eyed stare that seemed to reach places that Daryl never lets anyone see. Daryl remembers being a boy and wishing for x-ray vision like Superman, and now he’s glad he doesn’t have it. 

Because it makes people _uncomfortable_. 

Besides, what could Paul possibly see in Daryl that’s so interesting?

He’s a simple person. He doesn’t believe in God or any such thing. You take life like it comes, you don’t complain, you don’t whine about shit you can’t change. Keep busy, take risks when you gotta, and above all, protect the people you love. That’s it. That’s him. So why Paul keeps staring at him like he’s got _layers_ is beyond him, regardless of anything that had happened earlier that day.

After all, Paul didn’t know Daryl was in the closet, right? He didn’t see him, didn’t even turn his head that way. The horrible thought had crossed Daryl’s mind when he saw the drawing and Paul thanked him for fixing the closet door, but the other man isn’t acting weird enough to make Daryl think he knows he had an audience for that half-assed blowjob.

Daryl, on the other hand, can’t seem to contain his own weirdness. His hands are practically shaking as he drinks the last drops of watery squirrel broth from his bowl. He’s sweating profusely even as the sun sets and the October temperatures bite the air with a slight crispness. And he’s grateful that no one has tried to talk to him during dinner, because he’s pretty sure his voice would come out an octave too high, if he could manage to form words at all.

His mind is bombarded with things he’d long since put away, desire and need, and voices from the past bellowing at him in words of anger and humiliation. The voices don’t sound like his dad, his brother, his long-dead friends anymore. They’ve all melded into one cruel, relentless voice that sounds like his own.

But his body betrays him the most, with unyielding swells of emotion. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut with a two by four, so heavy is the weight of _not wanting to want_. Rage pounds in his ears, his only defense against his own desire to hope that something could actually happen with Paul, something good.

Worst of all is the lust that erupts in his body whenever he catches Paul’s eyes. It sets fire to his bloodstream, keeping too many parts of him on edge. His teeth itch. His cock jumps. Every nerve is jangled and electric, and _good lord_ , he’s just barely made it through one bowl of soup. When Paul starts to approach him to offer more, he jumps up like he was sitting on hot coals, keeps his head down and mumbles that it’s time for his shift on watch.

Yep, he was right. An octave too high.  


He bolts toward the gate even though the whole spiel about going on watch was a lie. He could probably talk someone into letting him take their shift but he thinks better of it, and instead walks along the inner circumference of the wall until he reaches the back of Barrington House. He slips inside quietly, making his way up several flights of stairs to the cupola, where he slouches against the wall to sort things out in his head.

Two hours later he’s heading back toward the trailer, and he’s come to some conclusions.

First, he’s decided he likes Paul. A lot. More than he’s liked anyone since Bo McCauley kissed him behind the blackboard in the second grade and caught him so off guard that he sneezed all over the other boy’s face. So nothing else ever came of that, and Daryl’s plan is that nothing is ever going to come of this thing with Paul either.

Paul wants him. Maybe even _likes_ him. He can see the signs now, in hindsight…the flirting, the rescuing, the care…stuff you do for people who are maybe starting to mean something to you. 

And he wants Paul. Holy fuck, does he ever. But he’s not going there, not even if they survive this war. In those pensive hours at the top of Barrington House, staring at the stars that shone in from every direction, watching the moon rise yellow and heavy through the trees, he remembered that the world now isn’t about love, not for him. It’s not about sex, either. It’s not about hope or desire or a future, or any of those fragile things that burned away somewhere between the quarry and Alexandria.

He can survive as the man he is now for as long as he lives, and with war looming he doesn’t really expect that to be too long. He can keep the past in the past. He can make sure Maggie makes it to the other side of this, her and her baby, safe and sound. He can help her win. And if he manages nothing else, that will still be enough.

He’s grimly determined as he approaches the trailer, his jaw is set as he opens the door, and when he steps inside to see Paul and Alex sitting at opposite sides of the table, his insides crumble into a mess of jealousy and want.

_Fuck._ He can’t back out now, not with any kind of grace, and he’s already humiliated himself in front of Paul at least once today. Paul looks at him with his eyebrows raised and a half-hearted smile on his face, like he’s apologizing for something that hasn’t happened yet. But Alex waves him over in an invitation, motioning to the half-drunk bottle of scotch in front of him. 

At least Maggie and Enid are here, both sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing cards. He gives them a quick nod and figures if he can just keep it together long enough to throw back a drink with the men at the table, he can feign exhaustion and lie down, and then continue to ignore both men for the rest of his life.

“Daryl!”, calls out Alex, obviously having recently consumed a fair amount of the missing scotch in that bottle. “Come! Sit!”

Daryl stares at the blond from behind his hair for a second and shakes his head. “Ain’t gettin’ drunk, man. Can’t afford to be three sheets to the wind if the Saviors roll in.”

“That’s what I told him!” Paul brandishes his arm toward the whiskey, and it’s immediately apparent that he’s much more sober than his…whatever. Ex-boyfriend. Fuckbuddy. Occasional substandard blowjob giver.

“Well, would you look at that.”, Alex leers at Paul. “That _is_ what you said. Aren’t you two just made for each other?”

Paul’s lips flatten in anger. He’s rolling his eyes and looks like he’s going to protest but Daryl’s had a rotten, confusing day and he can see what Alex is doing, and suddenly he’s _over it_. Before Paul can get a word out, Daryl pulls up a chair between the men, sits, and grabs the bottle from Alex’s hand with no hint of gentility.

“Enough of that.”, Daryl growls as he sets the bottle on his left, between him and Paul. He’s aware that Paul is gaping at him, but Alex seems undeterred in whatever motivation has brought him here. Daryl gets the distinct feeling that the blond was not invited.

“Wow, you really are an alpha male, huh?”, Alex slurs and shakes his head. “Damn shame. Paul doesn’t like other alphas.” He leans in toward Daryl, way closer than anyone with any sense would get, his fingers nearly brushing the outer edge of Daryl’s hand, and whispers luridly, “But I do.”

Paul stands. “That’s enough, Alex!” His tone is low and furious, but Daryl is faster to grab Alex’s arm and haul him out the door and down the steps. Paul’s right behind him though, and this time Daryl doesn’t have the luxury of two hours to think through what he’s going to do. So he throws all of the day’s prior decisions out the proverbial window of his mind, grabs Alex by the collar, and backs him up against the outside wall of the trailer.

He moves in close but doesn’t whisper, because Paul needs to hear this. “I like alphas too, ya prick. So leave _this one_ alone.”, and he motions toward Paul with his head. “Don’t come back unless you’re invited.”

He lets Alex loose to slump against the wall. For a moment the blond looks too shocked to move, before the look on Daryl’s face reminds him he could be murdered any second. He stumbles quickly away.

“Everything okay?” That’s Maggie’s voice from the open door of the trailer, and Daryl’s not sure how much she heard but he has an idea from the smug, know-it-all smile she’s trying to keep off her face. 

Paul answers her. “It’s fine. I’m sorry about that, Maggie. He’s just a prick when he’s…well, he’s just a prick.” 

Maggie nods and closes the door, leaving Daryl and Paul alone outside the trailer.

Paul isn’t looking at Daryl but Daryl is watching his face. He can practically see the neural nets in Paul’s brain twisting around like sea anemone arms as they try to reconfigure their pathways from _Daryl is not gay_ to _Did you just hear what Daryl said_ to _Daryl might be gay_ , and back to _DID YOU HEAR WHAT DARYL JUST SAID_ until bam, there’s a final, right connection and Paul’s eyes come back into focus. 

Daryl jumps a little when Paul turns and grabs his hand. “Come with me.”, he says, his voice a bit commanding and that’s all it takes, Daryl follows him around the trailer, along the wall to a private space behind the barn. 

Paul’s eyes are wide and confused and he looks like he wants to say twenty things at once. Daryl doesn’t blame him, he’s had all day to be confused and fucked up about this, but he just nearly shorted out the other man’s brain with two sentences.

That’s probably why he’s opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, looking at Daryl and then randomly at the wall and then back again at Daryl. Daryl knows he should say _something_ , but he not verbose at the best of times, and from the look on Paul’s face, this isn’t a best of times.

Still, their hands are clenched together, and finally Paul seems to remember that and looks down between them where their fingers are intertwined. He takes a deep breath and exhales, rubbing his thumb lightly across Daryl’s hand, before looking up and leaning in to kiss him once, lightly. It’s chaste. It’s kind. Daryl’s legs tremble and threaten to stop holding him up.

“You know, I don’t even believe in alpha males.”, says Paul as he presses his forehead against Daryl’s, his eyes closed. His free hand finds the ends of Daryl’s hair and rubs the long tresses between his thumb and fingers.

“Me neither.”, breathes Daryl, and he’s relieved to finally hear Paul’s voice. “I figure most of us are a little bit of everything.” His hands set lightly on Paul’s hips.

“Yeah,” says Paul in an almost-whisper as he draws his head back to look at Daryl. “I mean, I’m no alpha. I’m not a leader. But there are some things…”

“Where you’re good at being in charge.” Daryl responds, thinking that might be the first time in his life that he finished someone else’s sentence. 

“There are times when I _like_ it.”, Paul clarifies. The moon is just bright enough that Daryl can see Paul’s eyes pupils dilate slightly. 

And well, Daryl is obviously all in, previous lifetimes and regrets forgotten, and even as he feels that old, familiar need slithering up his spine, he grabs Paul’s neck and pulls him in for a real kiss, tongue and everything, then says, “Where can we go?”

***

As it turns out, Barrington has a large closet that was converted to an undersized bedroom at some point, but is currently unoccupied. It’s on the second floor, tucked in a corner, and it’s there that Paul leads them. Neither man speaks but there’s a steady, palpable hum of arousal between them, Daryl feels it in the heat coming off Paul’s body as they make their way upstairs and into the room.

The dim overhead light is barely switched on and the lock barely turned before the two men are scrambling together, hands grabbing at clothing, tongues licking into each other’s mouth. Paul tastes like peppermint and scotch, and the scratch of his beard against Daryl’s chin lights up every nerve in his body.  
He wastes no time in pulling Paul along with him to the bed, landing beneath him as they fall onto the mattress. They haven’t stopped kissing since they entered the room, but Paul finally moves away to remove his jacket, humming in pleasure as Daryl run impatient hands across the warm skin under Paul’s shirt. 

As he moves to unbutton Paul’s shirt, there’s suddenly a hand on his, stopping him. He looks up in surprise and no small amount of angst. Paul’s eyes are on his, dark and full of heat, but hinting at another emotion beneath the surface.

Paul doesn’t mince words. 

“Daryl, have you done this before?”, he asks.

“Which part?”

A hint of a smile tips the corners of Paul’s mouth. “Any of it. I mean…you’ve been with a man? Um…men? Before?”

“Shit.” Daryl pushes Paul off of him with both arms, rolling him to the side of the bed, then jumps up and races to the door.

His face is burning, heart palpitating, and he has the strange realization that lust and anxiety feel almost the same in his body. Except, of course, that lust drives him toward Paul, and anxiety makes him want to run all the way back to Bumfuck Georgia. 

Paul’s reflexes are too good, though, and before Daryl can turn the doorknob, a body presses against his from behind, pushing him into the door. Hands hold firmly to his hips. He’s shaking and embarrassed, _Jesus_ , he must be out of practice on this or why would the other man have ever asked that question? 

Paul’s voice is a soft growl in his ear. “Until twenty minutes ago, I thought you were straight and I’d never have a chance with you, so please don’t run. I just need to make sure this is what you want.”

Daryl relaxes slightly. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t bad at this. Maybe he’s just fucking scared and looking for any reason, past or present, to get the hell out while he can. But it’s way too late now, it’s been too late since the moment he saw Allen kissing Paul in the trailer. Eyes closed, he nods.

“Okay then.”, the voice in his ear whispers, and a hand fists in the back of his hair, pulling his head back from the door. Paul’s lips are on his, his breath hot and tongue relentless, until he whispers once again in Daryl’s ear.

“Get on the bed, Daryl.”

So Daryl does. He pushes Paul backward until he falls onto the mattress, and straddles his calves. He leans forward until Paul’s erection is only inches and a couple of lousy layers of fabric from his face, and Daryl feels his confidence returning. His hands aren’t shaking anymore as he unbuttons the other’s pants and slides them completely off, boxers too.

As he repositions himself, he can see that Paul already looks a little wrecked. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open, like he’s not sure what he just got himself into but he’s not about to complain.

God, Daryl loves this part. He loves the smell of musk and the soft flesh blanketing a hard cock. He pushes Paul’s shirt up with his hands, traces the muscles on his abdomen with his fingers and Paul whimpers a bit. He leans in close to Paul’s groin and breathes, nosing the area around the base of his cock, licking at the space with the tip of his tongue. 

Another whimper, and a hand finds his hair again, this time gently, fingers threading in close to his scalp as he licks his way up Paul’s shaft, teasing, and maybe testing. When Paul only moans softly, Daryl grabs the hand that’s in his hair, squeezes it into a tighter fist, and pulls it so it tugs hard against his scalp.

A sharp breath from Paul tells him the other man got the idea. He slides his hands under Paul’s thighs as his mouth finds the tip of his cock, tasting the salty precum. The mattress shifts as Paul props himself on one elbow, fingernails digging into Daryl’s head. He takes half of Paul’s shaft into his mouth, swirling his tongue.

“That’s it, Daryl, that’s so good.”, breathes Paul. “Christ, your mouth feels good on my cock.”

And that, Daryl thinks, is still not good enough. He squeezes Paul’s ass with one hand, brushes the fingers of the other hand over his balls, and opens the back of his throat, in one sudden move taking all of Paul in.

That might’ve been a scream. A manly scream, for sure, but definitely a scream-type sound. Daryl feels Paul’s legs tighten against his torso in an effort to keep from thrusting. 

_Better._

He sets a steady pace while Paul writhes beneath him. He waits until the other man is almost breathless before pulling off and looking up at a very destroyed Paul Rovia, who is staring at him with equal parts of awe and lust.

Daryl stares back, as if awaiting instruction and daring him at the same time. Paul takes the bait.

In one move, the scout twists them both over, landing on top of Daryl. He’s in a plank position but his knees are on the mattress, practically in Daryl’s armpits, and this is exactly what Daryl wanted. He wraps his arms around Paul’s upper thighs, closes his lips on him again, and Paul starts to thrust.

He may be a bit out of practice, but Daryl can take this. His eyes are watering and he’s fighting not to gag, but his arms keep a steady hold as Paul grunts and moans above him…not like those stupid _Allen_ moans, but intense, passionate moans, like men should make when they’re really getting off. 

Daryl would smirk with pride if it weren’t for the fact that he might suffocate, not to mention that his dick is so hard it’s testing the true strength of made-in-America zippers. He moves one hand to undo his jeans and tug them down a bit, letting his cock free and _oh god_ it’s been so long since his cock has been free and this close to a naked man that it feels more like a heat-seeking missile than something that’s attached to his body. 

He can’t help it, he needs one hand on it as he keeps the other around Paul, who suddenly tries to move away. 

“Daryl, let go, I’m…”

Daryl grips him forcefully, sucks hard on the next thrust, and hears Paul man-scream again as cum shoots down his throat. He works him through the orgasm until Paul gasps from sensitivity and pulls out of his mouth completely. He grabs Daryl’s shoulder and pulls, and Daryl takes his hand off his own cock and scoots his way up underneath to face him.

Wow. Paul is gorgeous in a post-sex daze. His eyes are glazed over and his hair looks like it was styled by cats. His breathing is shallow and the stupefied look on his face tells Daryl that yep, he did good.

“Holy fuck what was that.”, Paul half-asks and half-muses, his mouth hanging open a bit as he tries to breathe and talk at the same time. 

Daryl shrugs, because that’s what he always does when he doesn’t know what to say, and because he’s still hard but he’s starting to feel…that way. That needy way. And he’d like this to be fair for once instead of giving everything and then begging for it in return.

“Look at me.” There’s a finger tracing his jawline as he heeds Paul’s words and meets his eyes. They’re softer now, and searching, as if he’s trying to figure out something about Daryl and _good luck with that_ because Daryl’s been trying to figure this shit out for years.

Paul leans in to kiss his face, his neck, and slides his hand down Daryl’s chest and stomach to rest just above the open band of his jeans. When he looks again at Daryl, his eyes are dark, his voice firm. 

“I want to make you feel good.”, he says, and the words drift over Daryl’s skin like a breath. “Then I want to stay here all night with you. But tell me this isn’t a one-time thing. Tell me it isn’t only…this. Tell me you want more.”

And this is it. This is the moment where he can decide to be the man he’s become and maybe still the man he’s always been. He’s been trying to swap one out for the other, but something clicks in his brain and he realizes that maybe…maybe it’s okay to be both, because Paul will _let_ him be both.

He nods. “I want more.” His voice sounds smaller, shakier than he wants, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I want more, Paul. I do.” 

His hand finds Paul’s, the one resting on his jeans, and guides it below the waistband. As Paul works his cock, he lifts his hips and slides his jeans down, and he’s letting this happen, he’s letting Paul give this to him, and he’s never felt more relaxed and turned on at the same time as when Paul’s other arm moves beneath his shoulder to draw him close.

He’s so hard that the precum is enough to let Paul’s hand slide easily, his breath quickens and he moans as he watches Paul’s face. Paul watches back, gauging his pleasure.

“This is just a taste,” Paul says, “I definitely owe you one.” He laughs softly as Daryl gasps. Paul’s hand is doing pretty amazing things and he’s close.

“That’s it. You’re doing so well.”, whispers Paul, like he fucking understands what’s happening in Daryl’s mind right now. Like he knows what Daryl needs and actually fucking _cares_. “Come for me, baby.”

Well, that does it. No one has ever called Daryl baby. Apparently he likes it because fireworks go off behind his eyes and he comes so hard he arches his back, his hands gripping Paul’s sides like the man is his only link to life and right now, maybe he is. 

Daryl wakes up the next morning not on the floor of the trailer, but in a bed, and not alone, but with a sleeping Paul’s arms and legs tangled around him. He might as well be a stuffed animal, the way Paul is snuggling and holding him close, and fuck.

That feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I wrote this blowjob so many times that I nearly got blowjob burnout. I wanted it to be different but discovered it's really hard to write smut differently every time. I hope I got the dynamics right, it's a little ooc in places but sometimes you just gotta have a little fun. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> I gave CanonCannon a prompt in return, so I could practice writing awkwardness and she could practice writing romance! Check out her fic here. http://archiveofourown.org/works/11212497
> 
> I'm @AJWMagickl on Tumblr, come say hi!


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